Ghosts
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: Sherlock recognized Jim- you don't forget the face of the man you once loved.
1. Chapter 1

He'd recognized Jim the moment he'd walked into the morgue -of course he had, how could he not remember that face, that voice- but he hadn't wanted to say a word, not in front of John. Things had… changed since Uni and he wasn't going to be the first to relive that debacle.

So he'd allowed Jim to walk in and walk out, refusing to fully acknowledge the man's presence. Once he was officially out of the room Sherlock was able to look around and collect himself enough to tear apart Jim's costume while Molly's eyes welled up with tears and she stormed out. He could feel John's disapproval, but he didn't care.

It had driven him mad, hearing Jim's voice, having him right there, very nearly there but not entirely there, playing a part Jim, always playing, never truly there. Everything about the costume had been specifically done to torture Sherlock, to remind him of what once was. The clubber's eyes- at Uni it was Jim who would tug Sherlock away from experiments, laughing that mad laugh of his as he entreated Sherlock to "just come dancing with me, one night Sherly, please," and Sherlock would follow, laughing along with. The hair product- Jim had always had it around, despite the fact that he never used it, and Sherlock had teased him over it mercilessly. The pants- that was to add insult to injury. They'd belonged to Sherlock when they'd been together. He'd foolishly left them behind after a fight- the fight, and he'd never gone back to collect them or any of his other things.

Damn him. All this time, all these years, and when Sherlock most needed his mind present when he most needed to think, Jim had shown up, once again throwing Sherlock's mind into turmoil.

Not this time, Jim. Not this time, and never again.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd been wrong- horridly, awfully wrong. It wasn't Jim, it was never Jim, that'd been too easy. Of course. John. All along it had been John, the one man he'd let truly see who he was, what kind of person he was, had been his betrayer.

All those thoughts ran through his mind in the instant before John revealed the bomb strapped to his chest and Jim stepped from the shadows. Once again, Jim had fooled him. John had tried to get Sherlock to run, but it was too late to run, couldn't John see? He was too involved in the game, the endless dance that passed for a relationship between himself and Jim. He couldn't leave now, with the game unfinished and just allow Jim to walk away. The sniper was hardly a factor.

It took every ounce of his not-inconsiderable self-control to keep from firing that gun. Had it not been for John's safety, he would have. Even knowing that both he and his only friend would perish if he pulled the trigger, his fingers twitched.

But that damn song. Even that was an affront, something designed to get under Sherlock's skin and remind him of being roused from the bed at some unholy hour of the morning to go with Jim to get breakfast. That idiotic song had been programmed as Jim's alarm, and it always blared directly in Sherlock's ear, making him groan and shove the CD clock away.  
"Sorry, wrong day to die," Jim smirked, but his agitation was palatable. Good. At least something was rankling him.

"Oh? Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock spat, quoting back what Jim had said that night, the night he left and they ended. Jim either didn't notice or didn't care.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," Jim said, and then ranted threats into his phone while snapping the snipers away. Sherlock suffered the rest of the evening in a sort of fugue state, unsure of his surroundings or his own thoughts. It wasn't pleasant for him, this state of unrest, but Jim had always had the ability to wipe Sherlock's mind completely blank.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherly, you can't honestly be angry with me! I got a better offer!" Jim exclaimed as Sherlock tore through the dorm room, slamming his things haphazardly into his trunk. Sherlock ignored his- not his boyfriend anymore- his soon-to-be-ex-roommate and continued packing.

"No, Jim, I'm not angry. Angry is what I get when you interrupt an experiment. This is furious," Sherlock growled, shutting his trunk with a bang. Jim hung off his arm, trying to hold Sherlock back, but the boy refused to remain bound. He tore his wrist out of Jim's grasp.

"But- but- we never said-" Jim protested. Sherlock cut him off.

"We shouldn't have needed to, James." Full first name, complete sincerity. "Two people as intelligent as we are shouldn't need to say anything. We should know." Sherlock slammed the door on Jim's face, dragging his trunk behind him. His coat was billowing and he knew the other students were staring, but he didn't care, he didn't care. Jim had betrayed him, broken what was terribly fragile to begin with. As he stormed down the hall, he heard Jim call after him.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock!"

Not if Sherlock had anything to say about it.


	4. Chapter 4

He never went back. He'd left Uni, started using, and thrown himself into the Work at all costs. He refused to think of Jim, had all but deleted him. If Sherlock had thought himself capable, he would have deleted Jim, but no matter how often he tried, Jim refused to be deleted. All the anger and betrayal would not be destroyed, could not be ignored. So instead he purged it out, shoving it at others around him, aiming at Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan. Anyone and everyone who got in his way, especially Mycroft, foolish Mycroft, who had met Jim and encouraged their relationship, received a large dose of his wrath. Yet no matter how many he lashed out at, how many widows he made cry or men he made furious, he still couldn't get rid of this awful pain in his chest, the ache that said his heart had been burnt out.

Nothing Sherlock tried worked. The drugs were removed from him, the Work was never challenging enough, and always, always idiots surrounded him. Even John, his closest –and if he was being honest, only- friend was as boring and normal as they come. But he managed. He testified at Jim's trial, lying and saying he barely knew the man. Jim had merely smirked; popping his gum in a way he knew drove Sherlock mad and allowed himself to be found innocent.

Sherlock had expected nothing less. The great Jim Moriarty would never allow something as minor as a trial to get in the way of his game. No, Jim had something big planned. Something designed to destroy Sherlock.

His plan became clear upon the kidnapping case. Jim had done something unspeakable to this little girl, making her terrified of Sherlock. So that was his game. Make the others believe he had been staging these crimes. Sherlock had to appreciate the brilliancy; destroying the faith others had in him would destroy the Work, effectively destroying Sherlock. When Lestrade came to arrest him, Sherlock did the only thing he knows how to do: he ran. This time with John by his side, he ran and ran until he found the source of his problem: Jim. Or, as he currently called himself, Rich Brook. Another carefully calculated blow, this one aimed at the last case untainted by Jim's reach. Rich Brook; Reichen Bach. Clever. He left John to the doctor's own devices, not really caring where he went.

Sherlock had no choice; he had to call in help from Molly. He just wanted to talk things over with her; someone he knew had faith in him no matter what, even if he didn't particularly like her. He told her everything, about his relationship with Jim, about how he'd resurfaced after all this time only to destroy Sherlock. Molly was sympathetic, annoyingly so, but Sherlock needed it, needed to hear someone make ridiculous soothing sounds as he fell apart and put himself back together. He knew what he had to do, but it didn't make the act any easier.

He ensured that John would be away, allowing him to text Jim with the meeting place, atop St. Bart's, high enough that he could see parts of London but not the faces and lives of the boring people below.

"All my life I've been searching for distractions. And you were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you. And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary. Just like all of them. Oh well." Jim is rambling, and Sherlock isn't truly listening, he's trying to find an out, there's always an out.

Sherlock bluffs, claiming he can delete Rich's existence, when they both know that isn't possible, any more than Sherlock could delete Jim's existence in his own mind. Jim tells him what Sherlock already knows, the code is a fraud and unless Sherlock is dead, his friends will die. Sherlock can't let that happen -not only because he doesn't wish to lose, but because he doesn't want anyone to harm the few people he's managed to care about since Jim.

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested, you can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless-"

"Unless I kill myself and complete your story," Sherlock muses. Jim says something, but once again Sherlock isn't listening. Instead he is taking in the world around him, knowing it will be the last day he sees. "And I die in disgrace."

Jim speaks again as Sherlock steps to the edge. "Off you pop. I told you how this ends. Go on. Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers. I'm certainly not going to do it." Then the detective can't help one last jab. He begins to laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

Jim loses it. "What?! What is it? What did I miss?" he shouts. He must recognize Sherlock's laugh, the one that only ever came out when someone else has missed something Sherlock deems obvious.

Sherlock turns and beams. "You're not going to do it. So the killers can be called off then. There's a recall code or a word or a number. I don't have to die if I've got you." He knows now it can work. He can make it out alive, past this thing with Jim, whatever it was, and into his new life.

"Oh, you think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?" Jim's voice is cocky, but his face betrays memories. In Uni, Jim could get Sherlock to do things occasionally, but if Sherlock wanted something, Jim would always bend over backwards to get it. And Jim knows it.

"Yes. So do you," Sherlock states proudly, relying on whom he once was to keep Jim in line.

Jim's grasping at straws now, desperate. "Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to." At this, Sherlock only smirks. Of course Mycroft couldn't get Jim to do a thing, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

He steps closer, invading Jim's space, deliberately making him as uncomfortable as possible. "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint you." Sherlock's voice is low and harsh, every ounce of anger and loathing and heartbreak layered in it.

They stand there for a moment, and then Jim reaches a conclusion. He begins shaking his head, and Sherlock knows he's lost control. "Nah. You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock's the desperate one now, trying to regain the control he'd held over Jim only moments before. Clever, think clever, Holmes. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them." There, that ought to bring back the game into his own hand. But it doesn't.

Jim suddenly smiles. "No. You're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me. Thank you. Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out. Well good luck with that."

Sherlock is hardly aware of the gunshot. All he sees is Jim's blood, blowing out and then his body as it crumples to the ground. His mind shorts out, unable to stop replaying the image in front of him.

Jim is dead. Jim Moriarty, the only one who was ever truly a match for Sherlock Holmes, is gone. That mad, absolutely insane man that Sherlock had once loved is dead. Sherlock hardly remembers making the call to John, he only knows that it is something he must do, to keep them all safe, and to ensure the ease of his passing on his friends.

But in those last moments after he hangs up, he isn't thinking of Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or Molly, or even John. His only thought is Jim. And he falls.


End file.
